


The Ravens and The Swans

by HastaLux



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, Female Witcher Schools, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28198236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux
Summary: The Warlord of the North is paid a visit by two schools of mostly female Witchers, and a Bear finds exactly what he's always wanted and never knew he could have.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 69
Kudos: 270
Collections: Inspired by inexplicific Accidental Warlord AU





	The Ravens and The Swans

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Twirl Three Notes and Make a Star](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23878012) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 



> Inspired by Inexplicifics's magnificent Accidental Warlord AU, which I've re-read an ABSURD amount of times in the last few months. Thank you for blessing us with it.

They arrive during dinner, which, when Eskel thinks about it later, he realizes must have been planned. The first hint is an odd commotion outside, which slowly quells the noise in the hall as Witcher ears pick up the conversation. Then Jan runs in, scurrying up to the high table in the patented urgent-walk of a steward that’s trying to alert their lord of something without running so no one realizes it might be an emergency. Most Witchers don’t wear their swords in the keep, but Eskel can see the shift as carving knives still in the hands of the Cats and the Vipers, who are best suited to throw them like daggers. Eskel’s hand goes to his own thigh, as he knows most of the others at the high table do (whether it’s polite or not, none of them will be letting anyone get a blade near Jaskier, Geralt, or Ciri.)

“White Wolf, ah- there are guests-”

The women enter before he’s finished. Sixteen of them, dressed in leathers and mail that’s not too far off from what the less-armored schools wear.

And each of them carry two swords.

But the truly uncanny thing is, Eskel can’t smell anything about them. There’s a trace of sweat, sure, if he tries for it, and the leather they’re wearing, but not a single feeling amongst them. They’re just… blank.

Jan swallows. “They say they are Witchers, sir, of the Schools of the Raven and the Swan.”

“Ah, fuck,” Eskel hears someone mutter under his breath, and for once it’s not Geralt, but  _ Vesemir.  _ The old man stands, and he’s not alone. The other oldest Witchers, Keldar and his ilk and the other heads of schools, all stand as well with similar looks of grim sobriety on each of their faces. “Sisters,” Vesemir begins. “To what do we owe the honor?”

“Sisters?” Jaskier murmurs, and Eskel shrugs, but Geralt — Geralt is tilted forward, listening like he’s forgotten something from a very long time ago. 

“You are conquering, brothers,” the woman in front says. Her hair is white, though Eskel has the impression it’s due to age, not mutagens like Geralt. Still, she has a muscled frame under her armor, and he’d bet underestimating her in a fight would be a deadly error. “And so we come to learn your minds and your motives, as we have always promised.”

Eskel watches as Vesemir turns toward Geralt and gives a slight nod, one that Geralt returns, letting him continue to hold this court. 

“Jan, please bring another table. Sisters, you are welcome in our halls. I am Vesemir of the Wolf School, and this is Geralt, the White Wolf, whom we follow in good and earnest faith for the integrity of his deeds.” 

She nods, offering a small bow in respect. “I am Mordaine of the School of the Swan.” 

Eskel squints- she isn’t wearing what he’d call a medallion, really, but there is a little white pendant there, and he can see similar cords on the other ladies, though some are tucked beneath shirts and armor. Mordaine gestures to another younger woman beside her- one that looks a bit like Yen _ , _ if Eskel’s being honest, but there’s something more laughingly homicidal in her gaze. “This is Violeta of The Ravens. Together, we lead this expedition.” 

Vesemir bows toward each of them, just as respectful in turn. “Well met. You are welcome in these halls.” 

Jan and the other humans appear quickly with an extra table and food- food Eskel hopes they aren’t taking from their own plates, but hopefully the kitchens have enough to make more. He would not want the humans to go hungry on account of these ladies calling themselves Witchers. 

Jaskier is the first to ask, of course, in as quiet a voice as he can manage. “Love? Are there two schools that you’ve forgotten to mention?”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts. “Later.” Eskel tracks his eye- there’s a blonde woman at the new table, one with a white pendant. If he squints he can make out a subtle wing shape, but it’s not nearly as obvious as the heavier metal pendants the rest of the schools wear. She’s looking back at him with a quiet smile and a nod of greeting, and Geralt is looking back at her with roughly the same expression Eskel’s seen on him when he  _ knows _ something is wrong and he’s just not sure what it is.

It’s… odd. 

He keeps his fingers wrapped close to his eating knife for now, and he can tell he’s not the only one. Lambert and Aubry are about as suspicious as he’s seen them, short of actually leaping over the table to defend it. 

And Vesemir…. Vesemir doesn’t look angry, nor frightened, he looks… resigned. 

Eskel’s brow furrows. 

“Papa, I didn’t think there were lady Witchers,” Ciri whispers. “Just the ones in the Cats.”

“They’re… separate,” Geralt mutters. “I’ll explain later. Eat, for now.”

The rest of dinner is a subdued affair, and though Jaskier plays as many cheerful tunes as he can, a tension remains in the air. Witchers, as a rule, don’t like not knowing things, and it seems Eskel is not alone in feeling very, very lost. 

So it’s no surprise when he is far from the only one cramming into the council chambers after the meal to interrogate Vesemir and the other elders. Bless Triss and her silencing spells, otherwise the conversation would be easy for their guests to hear, but it seems that every school has sent a few representatives to listen and learn and report back to their brethren about what in Meleitele’s name is happening.

“Alright, alright, quiet,” Vesemir growls. “I know you’ve got questions, but I bet I can guess most of them, so keep your tongues until I finish.” 

There’s a murmured agreement, but he waits for silence before he goes on. “Those are indeed our sisters. Their schools date from the breaking of our Order, just as ours do. But when Witchers themselves created most of our orders, theirs was founded by a mage. One who’d been badly injured by our kind in the fighting, and one who’d trained in making mutagens. So he fled over the mountain and healed, and thought: what if Witchers become as bad as the monsters they chase?”

Eskel can grant that fear- it’s not so far off from the question that started all this, really. What should they do when men become monsters?

What should be done if the monster is a  _ Witcher?  _ By the codes they keep, they’re forbidden to kill their own kind. But Eskel remembers the old days on the Path, when not every Witcher obeyed that rule. 

“So he chose women. Women, who Witchers might believe are weak. Women, who can get close without being known. Women to be the executioners when a Witcher becomes the monster he should be hunting.”

“But the mutagens don’t work on most women,” one of the Vipers says. “Even when the Cats tried it only three survived. That’s not enough for a whole school.”

“Their mage created new mutagens. They are Witchers, but their formula is their own.” Vesemir nods to the other elders, Old Keldar in particular. “Some of us are old enough to have met their kind before, one way or another. And sometimes, if they found a stray boy-child on their own Paths, they’d bring one to us. And if we found a stray girl-child on ours….”

“Adela,” Geralt says suddenly, his eyes widening. “That’s her, with them.”

“Yes.” Vesemir nods, running a hand through his hair. “I took her over the mountains after you healed her.”

“But what do they  _ want _ ?” Eskel asks, because while this all makes sense, his concern is whether he might need to stab anyone today. “Learning our minds and our motives is a bit vague.”

“They want to see if Geralt is conquering with noble intentions,” Yen chimes in from the seat she’s claimed, wine glass in hand, “or if he’s become the thing they have sworn themselves against.” She takes a rather large drink. 

“Shouldn’t that be obvious?” Jaskier looks put out, perhaps because his songs are meant to explain this very thing. “Surely we can give them a list of every transgression each of these kings have made-”

“They judge for themselves, songbird,” Vesemir says somberly. “And this is not so simple as stating a truth and letting them scent the honesty of it. Men and Witchers alike can do good deeds for terrible reasons, just as terrible things may be done in the name of good.”

“And if they find us wanting?” Letho asks bluntly.

Vesemir sighs. “We should truly hope they do not.”

***

Torsten lurks amongst his brothers at the hearth while Junod explains in blunt and terse terms. The women are Witchers, of a sort. The White Wolf has ordered that they be treated like any other guests. 

Fine.

The Bears, of all their brethren, roll with punches. They harbor no strong feelings amongst themselves, at least not that they’d admit. If the women want to pass judgement, that’s nothing to them. If they want a fight, well. The Bears know who they follow.

Torsten’s not expecting to see the women turn up in the training yard. More than a few of the trainees have to be smacked on the back of the head to return their focus to their work. He keeps an eye on them as they begin to spar amongst themselves. The white pendants- the Swans- are strong and sturdy, not unlike Wolves. The Ravens, on the other hand, are fast, agile things, like the Vipers or Cats. 

He’s not the only one who’s watching out of the corner of his eye and trying to learn their skills, but it’s batshit crazy Kiyan of the Cats who actually goes over there first and asks for a match. 

The one who smiles and takes him up on it is Violeta, her dark leathers gleaming and newly oiled. Kiyan grins, all sharp teeth and mad eyes, and dives in. He’s not one for testing blows and feeling out his opponent, so it’s no surprise when he pulls a second dagger and tries to go at her with two blades, whirling and wind-fast. She responds almost as quickly — the few slices that get through collide with the chain in her armor. 

He jumps, spinning, clearly meaning to cut down her back before she can turn, but there’s an eruption of purple from her free hand, and Kiyan  _ slows.  _ His arm is still moving, slowly stabbing down, but it looks like he’s been knocked out of time, hovering in the air.

And then she punches him in the nose, hard enough to send him spinning into the dirt by the stables, where he lays giggling like a madman. 

“The fuck?” Torsten breathes.

“Was that a fucking  _ Yrden? _ ” Ivo grumbles next to him. They’re meant to be sparring themselves, but obviously there’s better entertainment to be had today. “Shit, she’s as bad as Eskel.”

Serrit weighs in next, and then Dragonfly — probably in unspoken solidarity with their sisters — in a brilliant four-way match against two girls called Maja and Hanna. It’s a blur, and beautiful to watch. At some point the majority of the trainers give up on running drills and instruct their boys instead to watch and study the variations in technique. They aren’t the only ones, either; the unoccupied humans, namely the bard and the cub, are up on the battlements as well. 

And then one of the Swans makes her way over to Letho, and after that it’s something of a free-for-all. Witchers are always like this when they meet each other, prodding and testing and weighing each other’s measure. 

None of the Bears join in, though. Bears are solitary creatures, mostly, but in this case Torsten’s main worry is that, well, they’re  _ big.  _ And as sturdy as some of those ladies look, it’s still not in a Bear’s nature to try to really hit a woman, especially when Bear punches have been known to knock out their fellow Witchers entirely if they land wrong (or right, depending on who it was getting hit). Even Junod cracked the White Wolf’s ribs once, though they can all admit that was because Geralt had been fending off three of them. But he’s watching the sparring, and his eyes land on the woman fighting Coën. Coën’s trying to be chivalrous, or whatever honorable bullshit Griffins think they have to adhere to, and she fucking  _ throws  _ him.

In full armor. 

Across the yard.

Bears don’t feel much, but Torsten is pretty sure the sense of awe rippling through his chest might be what the Bard sings about when he waxes on about golden eyes and lovely hair. “Tor?” Ivo asks behind him as he stumbles forward, barely watching where he’s going until he reaches her.

She lifts a honey-brown brow. Their eyes  _ are _ like his — he can see now that he’s close — but silver instead of gold. From a distance they’d pass for pale blue or stormy grey, if you couldn’t catch the cat-like pupil. “...’Lo,” he grunts eloquently.

“Hello there,” she responds, and her voice is like… good ale. “You want to spar?”

“Mmm.” And then, because Vesemir did tell them to try to be fucking polite, he remembers he has a name. “Torsten.”

“Sigrid,”she says, looking amused. “Rules?”

He doesn’t really want to stab her, not even for training. “Fists.” 

“Alright then.” 

Melitele’s  _ tits  _ she hits hard. 

Torsten feels the sort of rush of adrenaline he usually only gets on hunts. She’s faster than him, of course, but when he manages a hit on her, it’s the same sturdy muscle he’d get if he was hitting any of his brothers. Sigrid’s no breakable maid, no. And  _ then _ she cuts his legs out from under him with a swift kick, and he falls like the tree trunk he is, and suddenly she’s astride him, laughing merrily. “Sorry. You did say fists, not ankles.”

“...s’alright.” He swallows. The sun’s behind her, and it makes her hair look like part of the sky. “Good. Good move.”

“Thanks.” She smiles and holds out her hand. “Again?”

***

Eskel sinks into the springs, feeling a little pleased. None of the White Wolf’s Witchers had hurt any of their new sisters, or at least not more than they’d hurt their own brothers in sparring. It’s about as much as they could ask for, in terms of hoping the two groups will get along. He’d been tense the whole time, watching, especially since Geralt was in a meeting with Yen and Vesemir and Mordaine, leaving Eskel as the voice of authority and reason.

But their sisters have elected to use the baths later, either because their own training schedule isn’t quite the same or because they aren’t ready to deal with baths full of their brothers, which Eskel can understand. There are days  _ he _ wishes he could get a bit of peace and quiet in there.

But some days it’s worth it for entirely different reasons. He’s sprawled against the rock, almost floating and trying to think of nothing at all, when a large shadow crosses him. 

The Bears usually favor the hottest pool, in a mostly silent cluster of beards and chest hair that even the craziest Vipers and Cats won’t pester with their antics. They don’t usually come down far enough to get involved in the foolishness that goes on in the rest of the pools. So it’s a little odd to see Torsten, one of the biggest and hairiest of the lot, lumbering down this way at all.

It’s even stranger that he’s heading for  _ Lambert _ , who’s currently engaged in a splashing contest with Aiden.

“Lambert,” Torsten grumbles.

Lambert looks up, brushing his sopping hair out of his face. “Yeah?”

“Your girl likes you.”

“...yes.”

Eskel slowly tilts, letting his feet drop back to the stone floor, because he’s going to have to see this.

“Why?”

Lambert blinks at him, then grabs Aiden by the hair and dunks him to get him to stop making a rather descriptively lewd gesture with his fingers and tongue. “Do you mean why does  _ she _ like  _ me,  _ specifically, or how do you get a girl to like you in general?”

“Latter.”

Torsten seems unbothered by Aiden continuing to pester Lambert while they talk, but Eskel takes the time to slowly sink down, low enough to get his lips under the water, because if he laughs Lambert might take the watery fray to him next, and he’s  _ relaxing _ , damn it. 

“Well. Find out what she likes. See if you can give her that, or do it with her. Just, you know. Fucking talk to her.”

Right. Talk to her. Because Bears are great at the whole talking thing.

Torsten’s nodding in agreement, though, so… well, Eskel’s not going to be the man to burst whatever this bubble is. 

“Bet she wouldn’t mind if you licked her out for hours, either,” Aiden adds as he scrabbles up Lambert’s back, earning himself another dunking.

The big Bear nods once more. “She smells... satisfied. Your girl.”

“ _ Fuck.  _ Uh. Thanks?”

“Whores don’t. Licking out helps?”

Aiden  _ chokes _ , and it’s not because Lambert’s holding him under. Eskel dips lower until only his eyes are over the water because  _ holy shit. _

Lambert’s turning pink around his ears, and Eskel would guess if it weren’t for the mutagens reducing their ability to blush he’d be practically purple. “Er. Yeah. Shit, just, like. Have her tell you what she wants, as you go. See what works. Like, fuck, uh. Like fighting something new, when you don’t know how hard you need to hit to get through its fucking hide.”

“Only the weapon is your c-” Aiden sputters as he’s placed in a headlock.

“But, yeah,” Lambert continues. “You fucking ask her if you can do anything before you do it. Pay attention to corrections, especially if she says she doesn’t like something or you’re not quite where she wants.”

“Mm. Like sword technique from a good trainer.” Torsten looks contemplative for a moment, then clasps Lambert on the shoulder. “Thanks, wolf.” He strides back off to the hot pools as though this has been an entirely normal conversation and not the most unexpected thing Eskel’s heard in the last six months. 

Aiden escapes the headlock, of course, and climbs back up Lambert’s back, throwing his arms about his brother. “Look at you, source of wisdom for love and fucking. We’ll have the bard make a song about it.”

Lambert says something particularly crass in Skelliger about (from what Eskel can tell) a sea cow and a fisherman. “Fuck  _ off.” _

“We’ll add it to the refresher courses for those coming back from patrols,” Eskel intones quite seriously, because he can’t resist. “Instructor Lambert on the importance of consent and the ways of his magic tongue.”

“I fucking hate both of you and I hope you fall off the battlements,” Lambert says with a growl that’s more fond than anything else, and then he throws Aiden at Eskel for good measure. 

***

Torsten spends the next few days studying Sigrid. She’s a fierce fighter and amiable to sparring with him. He knows she has a decent Igni, and she likes the fresh honey bread Julita makes. 

None of this seems like helpful information.

He knows as much about some of his brothers, and he’s known a fair number of  _ them _ for seventy years, at least. So, what would he do if this were a hunt? He’d study the lair, if he knew where it was, to see what he could learn.

It’d be rude to go into their rooms, and besides, they’re guest quarters. So he does the next best thing, and over supper he stands up from the Bear table, ignoring Ivo as he asks where the fuck Torsten thinks he’s going, and marches over to the table the ladies have taken over.

They see him coming, obviously, and there’s more than a few slightly lifted eyebrows and vague smirks as he arrives behind Sigrid’s shoulder. “...’lo.”

“Hello Torsten,” she smiles amiably. 

“Can I join you?”

The women glance between each other, having the same sort of silent conversation any of his brothers might when faced with something new. “Alright.” They shift over, making a space for him that’s at least twice as large as the ones they’d been taking up on the bench, and he plops down to the sound of creaking wood. “Torsten, this is Cassandra and Adela and Pawel, they’re Swans, and Gweniven and Dari, they’re Ravens.”

He nods to the lot as they offer murmured greetings. He hadn’t realized there was a man in the group, mostly because Pawel is so small, but he supposes they’re like the Cats in that way and have a few outliers. Dari, it turns out, doesn’t care for female or male pronouns, which Torsten thinks is a fairly sensible way of going about things. “You all... finding your way around alright?”

“Not too bad,” Gweniven offers. “Didn’t actually think a keep could be as cold as ours, but of course the Wolves managed it.”

Pawel laughs, bright and high. He looks terribly young, but Torsten thinks it might be the hair- soft, long, curly locks that wouldn’t look too out of place on a noble maid. “Hot springs are worth it though.”

“True,” Sigrid agrees. 

“You haven’t come in with us yet,” Torsten notes. “It’s rowdy.”

“I like rowdy,” Dari smirks. “But we’re told not to mingle too much until the meetings are done.” They nod up to the high table, where Mordaine is sitting next to Vesemir, both of them frowning. Violeta’s up there too, though it looks like she’s entertaining Ciri and the bard, who’s obviously taking notes, with stories of conquests past.

“Why?”

“In case we have to kill you,” Gweniven says with maybe a little too much pleasure.

Torsten shrugs. “Eh. No point in letting that stop you.”

“How do you mean?” Sigrid asks. 

He scratches his beard. “F’the White Wolf ordered us, we’d kill you, sure, just like you’d kill us if your White Lady tells you to. Don’t think the Wolf would, but yeah, we’d think he had a reason. That’s not personal, though. Keeping apart is just… dramatics. So. No point.”

They consider his words, which makes him wonder if this is what Junod feels like when he’s got the eyes of the Bears on him. “I suppose that’s fair,” Dari states. 

“Alright,” Sigrid says, that confident smile never leaving her face. “So what do you suggest?”

It doesn’t take much prodding to suggest that one of the girls call for a brawl or dancing, or both- it’s decided dancing is the safer option, for now, though knowing some of his brothers’ senses of humor someone might get stabbed before the end of the night anyway. The bard has a good eye for these things, and gets the group going with music that encourages camaraderie and not bawdiness. Torsten’s not the most enthused for dancing, but he tries, partnering Sigrid and Pawel and Cassandra and then Sigrid again. “You don’t normally dance, do you?” she asks. “What do you like to do, Torsten?”

“Hm,” he grunts. “I can… show you?” This is the reverse of what he’s supposed to be doing- he should be asking her what she wants to do, but who knows. Maybe she’ll like it. 

***

“I call that one the Striga,” Tosten points up, tracing the outline of a set of eight stars. “One of her eyes is a Guiding Star. And Draco’s there- that’s a proper one, too- you probably know it.”

“Mmm,” Sigrid murmurs in agreement. They’re laying on the battlements, backs to the stone, eyes on the sky. It’s very clear up here, so high in the mountains, far from the cover of trees and city torches. “So you made up all these names for them?”

“Most. They teach us some, of course, the big ones, so we can make our way on The Path. Sky’s a lot more full than that. Seems like they should have names. M’sure the mages know what all they’re meant to be called, but I don’t. Easier to make my own.” He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. “You do this sort of thing at your keep?”

“Not usually,” she says, sighing. “We don’t have your human staff, you know. S’always chores to keep up, when we’re not on The Path ourselves.” Sigrid rolls on her side, looking at him. “How did you get so many? I remember even twenty years back, last time I took The Path to your side of the mountains, humans were terrified as soon as they saw my swords.”

“That’s down to the White Wolf. And the bard, I suppose.” He rolls to face her as well, resting his head on his hand. “Most of them were saved by one of us, one way or another. They don’t fear us.”

“I know. I can smell it, they’re all- content, I suppose.” 

He hums thoughtfully. “So you can scent like us. Wasn’t sure- I can’t smell you at all. It’s a little odd, to be honest.”

“Ah. Yes, that’s in these, actually.” She holds up her pendant- he can see it there, a little magic rune cut into the back of it. “It’s in case we….”

_ Oh.  _ Of course. “In case you need to kill us. So we don’t smell you coming.”

“Mm.” She tucks it away, back in her bodice. 

“Do you think you’ll need to?”

“I’m starting to hope we don’t. But I’m not sure.”

Torsten nods. Mordaine must make the final decision, he supposes. “Can you tell me why? No one’s said yet, exactly. Just that you’re worried about Geralt.”

“That’s sort of the crux, but…. Right, so our orders were founded because of the way the first Witcher order split. They teach you anything about that?”

He tilts his hand back and forth. “Somewhat. Know the Vipers killed a lot of Bears, once, know the Bears did their share too.”

“Right. So, back then, there were a lot of Witchers who didn’t bother with a code. Some of them killed each other, some did worse to humans. Witchers are meant to protect men from monsters. So what if the Witcher  _ is _ the monster?”

He hums in agreement. It sounds not too far off from what the White Wolf had said, and he’d been right about that too. Monsters can be men. Monsters can also be Witchers. “Makes sense.”

“Your oldest men, some of them saw the end of our side of that conflict. We worked as silently as we could to eliminate the worst of the offenders before they infected their Schools with it. Mordaine is the only one we’ve got left from back then, but we’ve been lucky. Not too many of yours going rogue.”

“White Wolf’s not rogue,” Torsten laughs. “F’anything he’s got the strictest code of any of us.”

“Not up to me to decide,” she says softly. “But, this many Witchers around, you can see the concern. This many  _ humans _ around, and I can see why it might not be true.” She fingers the chain of her pendant. “Seems like a good system, though, f’I’m being honest.”

“Then talk to the humans,” Torsten says. “Have your Mordaine do it, if you like. If you all can smell lies like us, then you’ll know.”

“I suppose we would.” A soft smile crosses her face. “You know, I’d heard Bears didn’t speak at all unless it was with their fists.”

“We don’t. Not unless something’s worth saying.” He considers, weighing his own words. “I think you’re pretty magnificent, as it happens. Even if you might have to kill us.”

She laughs brightly. “Do you now. Why’s that, Torsten?”

“Never met a woman who could throw me before. Even the girl Cats can’t manage that.”

An intrigued glimmer enters her eyes, and she rolls a little closer, trailing her fingertips up the hairs of his arm. “And does that interest you, my large bear?”

“Yeah,” he almost whispers, though it probably sounds more like a grumble. “Didn’t know a woman that could pin me was an option.”

“Hmmm.” She swings a leg over and slides her hands up to his wrists, and  _ fuck _ her grip is like steel and that’s enough of a thought for his prick to take a sudden interest in this exchange. “You want me to pin you, Torsten?”

It vaguely strikes him that this is more or less what Lambert told him to do, only she’s doing it to him, and, well. That’s more appealing than he’d imagined. “If you wanted to, think I’d let you do pretty much anything.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say to a Witcher, Bear.” Her tongue traces her lips in a way that’s damnably appealing.

“Neither of us will break, Swan,” he replies, feeling the rumbling of his words in her thighs where she’s straddling him. “Though I don’t think I’d mind if you tried.”

“Mm. Sure that’s what you want?” It’s an out, he can tell that, but  _ fuck no.  _ If she  _ can _ break him, by the gods he’s going to enjoy it while it lasts. 

“Want to kiss you, to start with. If that’s alright.”

She leans down, and the silver in her eyes looks like starlight behind the black sky of her blown-wide pupils. “I suppose that’s a fair request.”

Sigrid kisses hungrily, and Torsten’s happy to meet her demands. Neither of them care that they’re on the battlements as they cast aside leather and cloth and get sword-calloused hands on each other’s scarred skin. Every shift of her muscles reminds him how strong she is, that she won’t run away in fear that he’ll break her, and  _ gods _ he wants to worship her for it. She doesn’t seem to mind his body either, hairy and scarred as it is, and he’s downright  _ thrilled _ when she pushes him back to the ground and plants her knees on either side of his face.

“You done this before, Bear?”

“Not from this position.” He’d seen it this way before, of course, in his younger years when he was fresh out on the Path and visiting every brothel that’d take his coin. But it became pretty clear from the start that, while Wolves and Griffins could get away with playing the romantic, and Cats and Vipers could get those who wanted a bad boy, Bears were just too big and burly to be anyone’s fantasy. 

He noses upward, dragging his tongue through the heat of her just to hear her moan- and- oh, gods, she must have taken the pendant off, because he can truly scent her now, her satisfaction and her confidence and her desire, and  _ fuck,  _ that’s for  _ him. _ His cock’s hard as a jewel but that hardly matters. All he can think of is making her moan again.

The first lap of his tongue is exploratory, tentative, just savoring the taste of her, and she laughs cheerfully in enjoyment. “Just like that, Bear.” She urges him onward, guiding him until she has him just where she wants him. Witcher stamina is a hearty thing, and Torsten is pleased to find his tongue was not spared by the mutagens when it comes to that blessing.

But Witchers are also not a terribly shy lot, and while Sigrid clearly enjoys letting him do the work, eventually a hand in his hair pins his head to the ground. “Keep your tongue out- yes,  _ good _ Bear, just like that-” 

Torsten’s never had his face  _ ridden _ before, but  _ gods _ he could get used to this. 

***

“Well, you weren’t kidding, were you?” Jaskier lounges with his back against Geralt, feet out and resting on Eskel’s knees, because he doesn’t need as much food as the Witchers. All three of them have been watching the Bear who’s taken up residence with the ladybirds, mostly because he’s like an enormous mountain that’s suddenly sprung up in the center of a lake.

There’s definitely a song in that, but his welcome from the Bears has not been  _ quite _ as warm as it has from the other schools. Eskel and Geralt both agree that’s just the way of the Bears, that their particular mutagens don’t leave much emotion behind at all, but Jaskier doesn’t believe that’s entirely true. 

Still, it’s probably best to offer a song for all the Bears first and see how well it’s received before he tries for any specific members. 

“Which one is he after? Do we know?”

“Sigrid, I think.” Eskel nods in the direction of the woman, who’s one of the more powerfully built of the Swans. “And judging from the scent of him at sparring this morning I think he’s had some success.”

“And is that….” Jaskier’s gaze drifts down the table toward Mordaine. He hasn’t sat in on most of the meetings with her, because this is Witcher business and from what he can tell she and Vesemir quite possibly tried to kill each other at least once, though no one’s given up that story yet. It’s something he hasn’t wanted to press too much yet, not until Eskel and Geralt have processed what are obviously complicated feelings about the matter. “...a good thing?”

His White Wolf grunts with something like mixed approval, and Eskel nods. “Doesn’t hurt. So long as neither of them does something stupid.”

Jaskier plays during dinner, dancing tunes this time, and encourages a bit more free mingling between the ladies and their brothers as best he can. Afterward, however, once the Witchers begin supplying their own music of stomps and cheering, and Geralt and Eskel escort Ciri to bed, Jaskier takes the opportunity to slink down the table toward Vesemir. 

“I see you coming, songbird,” Vesemir sighs into his cup, though Jaskier knows well enough that he means it fondly. “What am I to be interrogated about this eve?”

“Vesemir, you make it sound like a trial! You enjoy regaling me just as much as your cubs.”

“Hmph. I’ll be the judge of that.” Those yellow eyes shift askance- like the sun peering out from a storm cloud, really, and Jaskier makes a brief mental note to jot that down later before he forgets, as Vesemir is owed a song. “Go on, then.”

“You know her. Mordaine.”

“Aye. Took Adela- the blonde Swan, there- to her, when Geralt rescued her. Didn’t even have a medallion yet and veered right off his Trial because there was a child left alone to die in the wood.”

Jaskier blinks.  _ As if there isn’t enough material to write songs about Geralt already.  _ Truly, his White Wolf is far too generous in spirit, and he can more than imagine the scene as he’d like to sing about it. He’ll have to get the details from his beloved later, but his story senses are tingling here. Vesemir is leaving details out. “That... was not the first time you met, was it?” 

“No.” He sighs again, downing the rest of his cup. “I had met her before. Chasing the same target, as it happens.”

“A contract?”

“A Witcher.”

And that — that makes his blood run a little cold. “You… don’t kill other Witchers, though. Isn’t that… part of the code?” 

“Yes. Unless we have to.” Vesemir pats Jaskier on the arm and it strikes him again how  _ young _ he must look to a man like this, a man who’s outlived almost everyone he knew in his first century. “Not all Witchers keep to the Path, songbird. You’ve only known Geralt’s pack, and even the worst of them will not kill for sport or coin. But there are Witchers who did. Who do.”

“There are… even more out there?”

“Oh, surely. I know some of them have died, but I’d lay money they haven’t all. Bounty hunters, for the most part.  _ Any  _ kind of bounty.”

Jaskier considers this, the pieces slowly tying into place. “You knew. You knew she’d come here. That’s what you’ve been having all those private meetings about. You think someone will put a bounty on Geralt.”

“They will, songbird, sooner or later. Some put-out noble will hire an assassin, or a king will decide Geralt is little too strong for his liking. They do it to each other, they’ll do it to us as well. It’s better to get in the good graces of our sisters now, so when it happens they’ll take our side, maybe even put the threat down before it happens.”

“And to do that, we need them to trust Geralt.” He sees it clearly now. It’s… tactical, but cold. “Did you summon her?”

“No. She’d been nosing around — knew some of the lads had met her girls on patrol, though they didn’t know who it was they were dealing with.” He huffs a laugh. “If anyone told her to come up, it was Keldar. Griffins have always gotten on with the girls the best of any of us.” 

Right. Knightly mores, chivalry, etc. Jaskier can imagine the Griffins are much less likely to go rogue than any of the other schools, except possibly the Wolves. “The hunt you met her on… who was he?”

“My brother,” Vesemir says darkly. “Same training class. Went out on the Path and liked to use his hunts to size up any unattended women in the villages he went through. Took a while for folks to catch on that usually one or two victims went missing  _ after _ he’d started to hunt.” He shakes his head. “Some of the trainers knew, but they said we didn’t kill our own.”

“But you were going to go after him anyway.” 

“Aye. Or at least stop him taking anyone. But it turned out someone had given word to Mordaine as well. She beat me to him.” 

Jaskier pours Vesemir a fresh mug of ale — it sounds like he needs it, poor man. “You did the right thing, you know. So did she.”

“I know. But I don’t like her looking at Geralt like he’s….”

“Like he’s a monster.” Jaskier wraps his hand over Vesemir’s arm. “He’s not, and you’re not. And she’ll learn that too.”

“Thank you, Jaskier. He’s… better with you, you know. He was always too good for the rest of us, but you made him even greater.”

A flutter of warmth flits through Jaskier’s chest, but with all the Witchers still in the room he forgoes the urge to offer Vesemir a decent cuddle. Instead he stands, meaning to head out to meet his lovers back in their room and perhaps fuck this unsettled feeling out of his chest. “Flatterer.”

“Jaskier.” Vesemir beckons him back. “Adela. Geralt… I think he suspects, but I haven’t told him. Didn’t seem right when he was so young, and then…. The men who killed her family, the ones who left a child for dead….”

_ Oh. Oh, dear.  _ “They were Witchers too.”

“Aye.”

Jaskier plants a hand on Vesemir’s shoulder. “When you’re ready to tell him, let me know, and I will help you. But you should tell him.”

“I know, songbird.” He waves, shooing Jaskier away. “Go on, then. I’m sure they don’t like waiting.”

Jaskier grins lecherously, because Vesemir’s expecting it and it will make him laugh. The man deserves a laugh. “Oh, you have  _ no _ idea.”

***

“You willing to try something for me, Bear?”

Torsten stretches out on the bed, already well-sated, and though he is a Witcher, he does need a  _ little _ time between rounds. “Need a minute to get up again.” 

“Won’t need to be for this, though I expect you will be by the end.” She strides across to the room to the little bag she’d brought, giving him a fair view of her arse as she bends. “Enjoying the view?”

“Mm. Better than the first warm sunrise after winter.” Gods, he’s got to stop listening to the bard. The man’s poetry is rubbing off. “What do you have in mind?”

Sigrid pulls a bit of dark, lacquered wood out, and-

Well, that’s definitely a shape he’s familiar with. 

“For you or for me?”

“For you, darling Bear. Have you ever taken before?”

He grunts an affirmative. Of course he has, he was a young Bear in the prime of his hormones  _ and  _ flooded with mutagens in a keep full of other, similarly minded young men and absolutely not one woman to be seen. There’s been a few since, as well, though his tastes run toward the feminine generally. “Been a bit.”

She smiles, all seductive predator. “I’ll be gentle.”

“Not too gentle, I hope.”

“Oh, never, Torsten.” She has her own oil for this — something that’s better for the wood — and she’s liberal with it as she slides her slim fingers inside him.  _ Fuck.  _ It  _ has _ been a while, but her fingers are so deft that find his-

“Oh, _ fuck _ .”

Sigrid chuckles darkly, pulling up the leather straps that bind her toy to her hips. “Mmmhm. Thought so. Bend lower for me, love — chest down on the bed, just relax. I’m going to take such care of you.”

She does, though Torsten’s convinced after a minute or two, that by  _ care _ she means  _ listen to you beg for it. _ Which is fine, thank you Merigold’s silencing spell (not that he cares if they hear what he’s up to — more that if he kept any of them awake he wouldn’t hear the end of the grumbling. Bears are touchy when it comes to their preferred hibernations.) “Sigrid — fuck,  _ please _ _ — _ _ ” _

“Please what?”

“Please get that pretty cock of yours in me.”

“Ooh,  _ pretty. _ I like that.” She presses in slow and steady, rocking with practiced ease after each deeper push. “Very good, Torsten. Keep breathing for me.”

Focusing is a struggle, but he manages, keeping his breath even and his body as relaxed as he can manage. Her wooden cock doesn’t have the same give as a real one, but that almost makes it better- firmer and fuller. “Up on your hands, now- that’s it.” The shift in angle is all she needs to fully bottom out, and Torsten pants a bit when she stills, letting him adjust. 

“Good enough,” he grunts after a bit. “Move.” Sigrid makes a humming sound that suggests he’s missing something, and he smiles despite himself. “Move,  _ please.” _

“Very well, my polite Bear.” Her first rocks aren’t too hard- just a slow press in and out again, letting him feel the whole of the length in a tantalizing slide. 

It’s a pace she can keep for a while, apparently, either due to practice or sheer Witcher stamina, but it’s driving him  _ mad _ with need for  _ more.  _ “Harder,” he groans, feeling shameless with how badly he wants it.

Her hand strokes into his hair, fingers wrapping and pulling back tightly on the length of his tied-back tail.

“If you insist.”

_ Oh- oh gods- _ Sigrid doesn’t hold back. Torsten’s never thought of his hair as a place he can feel arousal, but when she pulls on it in time with every snap of her hips it’s like his scalp is tingling just as much as his dripping cock. “Gonna keep going ‘til you come like this or you ask me to stop,” she pants herself, no doubt feeling the effort of attempting to fuck his soul directly out of his body. 

And gods, yes, he wants that. If anyone can make him come without his cock being touched it’s her.

She ploughs him thoroughly, hand pressed against his hip, until he must make some noise that tells her he’s getting close again- Torsten can’t tell what sounds he’s making at this point, it’s all an echo of sensation and bliss. Sigrid pulls back, dragging him upright by the hair, and wraps her other hand around his throat. It’s gentle, for a Witcher, just enough to control, not to compress, but-  _ fuck, _ that’s good.

Torsten’s eyes flutter shut. 

“My beautiful Bear. Are you going to come for me? Show me how much you’re enjoying yourself, Tor. I want to see it. Show me.”

He lets her purred words flow through him like a cascading river, building in time with the almost desperate pulse of need within him. When he comes, he knows it’s with a shout so loud that it feels like the stones of the room might come down. It’s only because her hands are already on him that he doesn’t collapse straight to the bed.

“Gorgeous bear. That’s it, lay down— good, very good.” Torsten knows he’s adrift for a bit, but Sigrid is still there, touching him and speaking to him. It feels like hours before he finally gets his brain to make an attempt at words again.

“Guh.”

“Mmhm.” Her hand strokes through his hair. “You came pretty hard, bear.”

“If I came any harder I think you’d have to ask one of the sorceresses to put my soul back in my body.” He sighs, and shuffles closer so his head rests on her thigh. “You don’t have any sex magic on that toy of yours, do you?”

Sigrid laughs. “I swear I do not.”

“Good.” He drapes his arm across her— she’s warm, and her muscles make truly comfortable pillows. “Give me a bit to rest, and I want to try it again.”

She laughs again, her fingers massaging his scalp. “Alright, eager bear. Rest first.”

***

Geralt’s last meeting with Mordaine is between the two of them, Violeta, Eskel, and Vesemir, and it immediately precedes dinner, which means Jaskier get to pace nervously outside the hall, listening to the sounds of boisterous Witcher foolishness as the rest of the denizens of Kaer Morhen begin to stride in. 

“She won’t, right? I mean— obviously Geralt has the purest heart known to man or Witcher-”

Lambert makes a snorting noise- he’s on bard-guarding duty, flipping knives just a span down the corridor, and Jaskier makes a shooing gesture at him.

“ _ Fine, _ not in  _ bed,  _ but still-”

“He’ll let you know. And if there’s anything amiss, I’ll smell it before you. No one’s going to fucking stab you this time.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Jaskier grumbles- then the door at the end of the corridor opens. Geralt walks through, Mordaine just behind him, and while he can’t smell what Geralt’s thinking, he can tell from the ease in his brow that there’s a relaxation there, an ease that’s been missing the last few days.

_ Oh thank fuck. _

As they walk in together, any tension the other Witchers have been holding eases, and though usually Geralt holds his speeches, which usually means Eskel’s speeches, until after he’s eaten, apparently this one is important enough that he lingers behind his seat, waving a hand for silence before gesturing to his beloved shadow to speak on his behalf. 

“We have been fortunate to host our sister schools these last few days. Thanks to all who managed not to make an arse of themselves in the process.” There’s some snickering amongst the tables, mostly in the direction of those who found themselves on the other end of a Swan’s strong arm or a Raven’s daring acrobatics. “I know you all know why they’re here, because you’re all as gossipy as those Redanian arseholes, but I’m pleased to say we’ve reached an accord.” He holds a hand out, and Mordaine rises beside him.

“Our schools have been somewhat at odds for centuries,” she begins, her voice carrying into the hall with ease. “While we have not had to interfere often, the fact that we would need to step in at all was enough to keep us apart. That said, it has become clear to me the old ways will no longer serve us.”

“The White Wolf,” she nods to Geralt, “has embarked on a path of service. We Witchers, with our long lifespans, have an opportunity to shape the path of humans toward a sense of goodness and altruism that has previously been only a dream. Yet such a position of power holds much temptation, and while I do not think the White Wolf would knowingly fall to such perils, it behooves us to exercise caution.

“Therefore, some of the Ravens and the Swans will remain here, at Kaer Morhen. And we will be sending one of our mages along as well, for we have found a failing of our own in this visit- that our trainees still suffer the Trials in the old way, and do not have the benefit of your decoctions to lessen their peril. For this boon, most especially, the White Wolf has our thanks.”

There’s a general cry of support in the room- for many of those men, the opportunity to spare their trainees from death has been a gift far greater than any can say. Eskel nods. “There you have it. Welcome your sisters, then, and maybe after dinner we’ll have a proper brawl to welcome them.”

The cheer grows louder- and Jaskier realizes, as he’d missed it while he had his eyes on Eskel and the eldest Swan, that many of the women are mingling already. Sigrid and Adela are at the Bear table, comparing biceps with the larger, hairier men. Pawel’s landed with the Cats and seems to be hearing something particularly hilarious from Aiden- which, judging from the roll that Lambert tosses at the back of Aiden’s head, is probably something about the young Wolf. Serrit and Dari are chatting amiably at the Viper table, and the ladies of the Cats have all migrated over the women’s table.

“Think your pack’s expanded again, love,” Jaskier whispers in Geralt’s ear.

“Hm. More mouths to feed.”

“Hush. You like it.” There’s a little twitch at the corner of Geralt’s lips that serves as his agreement. 

“Gonna have to add them to your song list, catmint,” Eskel notes cheerfully.

“Oh, gods, there’s  _ three _ bird schools now.” He’s going to have to fix up some of his metaphors to make it clear which one he means.  _ Fuck.  _

“Eat now,” Geralt grunts with a nudge at his hip. “Compose later.”

“Fine, fine.” Jaskier kisses him before diving into his meal, just because he can. “As you command, my honourable White Wolf.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Paia_Loves_Pie and HoomHum for both beta-ing and listening to me yell and throw bits of smut at them for like two weeks straight. This fic invaded my brain and would Not Let Me Know Peace until I finished it. Love you both!


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